


You're Good Undercover, But I'm Better Under The Covers

by leopardwrites



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dancing, First Time, Holiday Fic Exchange, M/M, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-05
Updated: 2013-01-05
Packaged: 2017-11-23 18:48:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/625429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leopardwrites/pseuds/leopardwrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock may be the better dancer of the two of them, but John's not too shabby at one particular dance...</p>
<p>
  <i>“I could teach you,” Sherlock says off-handedly when they calm down again. “If you wanted, that is. Not Ceroc, I can’t stand that style of dance. Something proper.”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. You're good undercover

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Fiona_Fawkes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fiona_Fawkes/gifts).



> Written for Sherlockmas 2012. I highly recommend visiting [the community](http://sherlockmas.livejournal.com) to read all the fantastic stories :D

The first clue John gets that Sherlock likes playing dress-up is when, in their fifth week as flatmates, he comes home (for it _is_ home already) to Sherlock wearing surgical scrubs and contemplating a small potted cactus with a disturbing sort of intensity.

“Case?” he asks.

“Case,” Sherlock affirms without looking away from the cactus. If anything, he squints harder at it.

John goes to make tea with a shrug (and a sigh at the mess he finds in the sink. And on the draining board. And on the chopping board).

As the kettle boils, he cultivates a nice, simmering, low-level annoyance in Sherlock’s general direction and _doesn’t_ spend an undue amount of time thinking about how Sherlock looks in his borrowed disguise and the oddly pleasing view of neck and chest that the loose top invites his eyes to linger on.

 

* * *

 

He’s not gay, you see.

 

* * *

 

The thing is, it’s not just clothes that make the man. Sherlock slips into a new persona as effortlessly as he does a security guard’s uniform. He’s a master of the superficially charming smile, the crocodile tears. It would worry John if he wasn’t able to see through it so easily most of the time. Proximity and time have made him quite confident that – in as much as any person can – he _knows_ Sherlock.

He’s still aware that he can be taken in like so many others have been. He’s been fooled more than a few times in their stint as flatmates.

Sherlock certainly isn’t above tricking and experimenting on him, far from it. He seems to be Sherlock’s favourite target, most days, particularly for practice when it comes to these things.

Sherlock once disappeared on a ‘case’ for two days, disguised himself as a homeless vagrant and positioned himself on John’s route to the surgery he was working for at the time, close to the café he knew John frequented. John actually gave the bedraggled-looking man a fiver on the second day (something about the man’s eyes reminded him of Sherlock, funnily enough) and ushered him into the café to get a hot drink and something to eat.

Sherlock repaid his kindness later that evening by declaring the trial a success and making John help with the disinfection process. He _had_ been kidding about doing that after any dealings with his homeless network before, but decided it was necessary on this occasion after being among them. The bastard.

Whilst aiding in the exhaustive cleansing of “I had to be thoroughly committed to the role” Sherlock, John ended up walking in on the man in the bath (really, two and a half hours was an exorbitant amount of time to spend in the bathroom) where he did not take a single moment to admire the way water droplets ran down Sherlock’s chest, nor the way Sherlock in a hot bath (lower half mercifully covered by bubbles) is apparently a content, relaxed variety of Sherlock who sighs and tilts his head back over the rim of the tub, exposing an incredibly appealing stretch of pale throat with a single mole on it that may or may not be there simply to make John’s life difficult.

No, John did not take a single moment for that.

Because he took several.

And if, later on when he was alone, he took several more moments for musings on and… around those particular areas, well, it wasn’t as though anyone had to know.

He’s not gay, but that doesn’t mean he’s entirely straight now, does it?

Disguises are one thing. To some degree, he can even see through fake beards and layers of grime to Sherlock underneath. The acting is something else altogether. Baskerville sticks in his mind as an example of a time when Sherlock manipulated him without any need for a costume or makeup. All he needed was the knowledge that John was unhappy enough about their argument that he was willing to accept Sherlock’s apology and along with it whatever drugged beverage he happened to provide.

That scares him. The idea that Sherlock can use his feelings to control him, that Sherlock could dupe him that way. He still trusts Sherlock implicitly, more than he does anyone else in his life, but he’s aware that when it comes to the nuances of Sherlock’s more emotional behaviour, he can’t be certain of the motive behind it.

It’s probably wise to be cautious, he thinks.

 

* * *

 

When Sherlock announces that they have to go undercover for a case together, John just blinks at him.

“Dancing,” he says eventually.

“Yes,” Sherlock says with a nod. “We’ll be a couple going to Ceroc on a gay friendly night that our friend Mr Matthews happens to enjoy.”

John takes a while to wrap his head around that.

Sherlock goes to pick out suitable attire for them both.

“We’ll be going in as beginners, of course,” comes the shout from Sherlock’s bedroom.

John isn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. “Of course.”

 

* * *

 

John’s not really sure what the worst bit about this is. One minute he thinks it’s the shoes (Sherlock insisted they get the correct, smooth-soled shoes to look as if they were serious about this), the next he thinks it’s the fact that they’ve been complimented _twice_ on what a lovely pair they make, the next he thinks it’s Sherlock’s hands – either both holding his to push and pull him about or one clasping his to lead, the other placed low on John’s waist and pushing, no, _shoving_ him this way and that.

Thinking about it, it’s definitely that last one, that is the very worst thing.

He’s gripping onto Sherlock for dear life at every turn, completely at sea in the middle of a room full of dancers who don’t seem to be as much of a novice as he is. Sherlock himself has evidently been schooled in the art of dance and moves, as in all things, with enviable elegance.

There’s nothing elegant though about his clenched teeth each time John steps on his foot. Nor the words that come out of his mouth the fourth time John does it.

“We’re meant to be beginners!” John hisses back at him.

They both fake a smile in apology as another wrong step brings them perilously close to the couple next to them. The two women are laughing and obviously enjoying themselves. John hates them on principle.

“It’s not that hard,” Sherlock says quietly, giving John’s hand a forceful squeeze when John attempts to go the wrong way again. “It’s hardly a quickstep or tango, John.”

“Says the public school boy who probably went to actual balls.”

“I can’t focus on Matthews if you keep distracting me with your lumbering steps.”

“And I can’t-”

“Okay!” calls the instructor from the stage. “Well done, I think… _most_ of you have mastered the octopus!” John cringes when the teacher’s eyes land on him during the emphasis in that sentence.

Sherlock, unlike the majority of the other partners, doesn’t release his hands as they listen for the next instruction.

“Now, we’re going to swap partners,” the instructor calls out. John looks to Sherlock with wide eyes. He didn’t know he’d have to dance with other people! “And we’re going to try that again. Stop looking at me like that, I’ll get you back into hold with your original partners soon enough. Remember, you’re here to make friends too!”

Sherlock scoffs under his breath and abruptly leans in close to whisper in John’s ear. “Don’t panic.” His breath is hot but John still shivers against him as the words spill over his skin. “As I’m on the leading side, I’ll get to dance with Matthews. That will give us time for a quick chat and afterwards I’ll be able to get to him at the bar. Your job is to get to know the partner, find out-”

“’scuse me,” says a man to their left, who must be in his mid-seventies at the very least. “Mind if I take your lovely gentleman for a spin?”

Sherlock conceals their conversation by pressing his lips to John’s cheek in a brief kiss. “I’m sure John here wouldn’t mind, would you, John?”

John’s mouth is open in surprise, both at the kiss and the gall of this man who looks like a stiff breeze might blow him over and yet wants to take Sherlock _for a spin,_ what the hell.

“By… by all means,” he says, stepping back from Sherlock and moving to go to the next waiting partner in the line: a young lady with a bright grin and asymmetrically-cut red hair. She doesn’t look too angry considering John bumped into her and her partner not five minutes ago.

“Oh no,” the man says to him. “We’re going anti-clockwise, I’m going to be leading _you_ now.”

John recalls a time when he begged a deity he didn’t believe in to let him live. Now, he’s not sure why he did. He wouldn’t have had to face this indignity, at least.

“I’ll leave you to it,” Sherlock says, the amusement laced through his voice as he goes over to his new partner and leaves John to his fate.

Blood rushes into John’s face, leaving him suddenly warm all over. The spot Sherlock just kissed is the burning focus as he takes the new man’s hands with a poor attempt at a smile.

“I’m Larry,” his partner says. “Follow my lead, but you still need to resist me a bit to get the right sort of movement going.”

John can’t help but notice that Larry has what some might call ‘crazy eyes’ as he says that. He also can’t help but notice the man’s red shoes. John doesn’t need Sherlock’s deductive reasoning skills to know those shoes aren’t something anyone wears on the street – they’re dancing shoes.

Larry is a serious Ceroc-goer.

Shit.

 

* * *

 

Fortunately for John, Larry does not snap in two as they dance. Each pull John makes against him seems like a close thing though, and Larry’s creaking and cracking joints are going to haunt his dreams for _weeks._ Despite that concern, Larry turns out to be something of a refined gentleman (he wears an embroidered waistcoat, for God’s sake) who just happens to make the occasional lewd joke. John is almost sad to see him leave, though he does so with a rather extravagant bow and a saucy wink when he straightens up, which makes John laugh.

Partners change and John dances with a variety of men and women, only stepping on a grand total of two feet (both belonging to the same man, who still maintained a cheery demeanour throughout their time together. He crushed John’s hands in a sweaty grasp in return and giggled nervously at random intervals. John ended up leading _him_ ).

Looking down the line, John doesn’t even get the satisfaction of seeing Sherlock uncomfortably dancing with over-eager strangers, because Sherlock is the one throwing _them_ about with ease. He smiles and laughs and acts like a regular human being with all of them. John feels strange and uncertain just seeing it, just like he always does when Sherlock is in-character and acting wholly unlike himself.

Only when he changes partners does Sherlock break character, and his normal, reassuring condescension comes back. His face shutters and he moves on to the next unwitting person without a word or backward glance at his former partner, leaving them somewhat dazed in his wake.

Eventually, as the leads all shuffle around the room in the circuit, John is faced with their target’s original partner, a man of average height and looks (aside from the regrettably prominent nose, that is).

Sherlock may not have finished his instruction to him earlier, but John already knows what he has to ask.

He opens his mouth and is rather unceremoniously cut off. “Michael,” the man says in a bored drawl.

“James,” John gives the false name easily. Sherlock shouldn’t make any more cracks about his acting abilities after all this, they’re passable. He knows that Sherlock wouldn’t ever have suggested they go undercover though if he didn’t really believe that John could at least act his way out of a paper bag.

“Exquisite,” Michael says, and John suppresses a shudder as he takes the hands that are outstretched to him. “Speaking of: the man you came with, just a friend?”

John tries hard not to tighten his grip enough to hurt. “Much more.”

Does he have the right to be possessive over Sherlock in this little charade? Probably. Does he have the right to feel inordinately possessive outside of it? Probably not.

He does though. God help him. That bit’s not an act.

Michael smiles, a crooked twist of his lips. “My mistake, don’t get upset.”

He tuts and nods his head towards their joined hands. John realises his hands are squeezing painfully despite his efforts not to and relaxes his grip.

“I’m here with someone myself, in fact.” Michael looks over to where Matthews is now dancing with John’s giggly man.

Harvey Matthews, John has already decided from what he knows of the case, is quite clearly the kind of man John Watson hates, guilty or not. The oily, arrogant type with more money than sense, like Sebastian Wilkes or the man from Janus cars. He’s married with at least two lovers on the side. John wonders if _Michael_ knows about the other one.

That reminds him: he has a job to do. He swallows his inappropriate jealousy and anger over Sherlock and gets to work.

“Oh really? Tell me about him.”

 

* * *

 

“That,” John says as they go through the front door to 221B, “was a nightmare.”

“Agreed.”

Sherlock floats up the stairs in front of him, taking off his scarf as he goes.

“What?” John follows him up. “You were doing fine! I was the one with two left feet who looked like a complete tit!”

“Yes,” Sherlock says, sweeping through the door to their flat without bothering to turn on the lights. He deposits his coat and scarf before sinking into the sofa with a sigh. “But it was still torture for me. Having to dance the same ridiculous steps over and over with an endless line of brainless people. Is that supposed to be enjoyable?”

“I think so. I can’t see why.”

John shucks his own jacket and lights the fire, rubbing his hands together. Dance classes in January, what a lovely way to start the New Year. He thinks about making tea and then thinks better of it. He needs something stronger after an evening like this. He takes a couple of glasses from the cupboard, quickly spot checks them for cleanliness and then pours himself and Sherlock a generous helping of red wine. It’s expensive, the kind Sherlock favours when he deigns to drink for his own pleasure at all.

John goes back into the living area and finds Sherlock has kicked off his shoes and is lying down on the sofa now, hands clasped prayer-like beneath his chin in his favourite thinking pose.

“Here,” John says, thrusting the wine glass at him. “Can I tempt you?”

Sherlock opens one eye and smiles. “Always.”

John feels an odd quiver in his stomach at that. He resolutely ignores it. If it happens again, it must be hunger, because he hasn’t eaten for hours.

They move to the armchairs and sit silently, companionable with only the sound of the fire crackling between them.

Three quarters of the way into his glass and feeling much warmer, John deems the silence to have gone on long enough. “So, what did you find out from Matthews while I was being accosted by every dancer going?”

Sherlock snorts. “You were quite a hit in the freestyle section, weren’t you? I think I put more people off than I endeared myself to…” Sherlock laughs softly and shakes his head. “Matthews, yes. He revealed very little, in the end. Nothing of use. I’m afraid we’re going to have to go back next week, John. I hope you kept your shoes.”

He smirks, and John’s not sure if it’s the wine and his empty stomach, but he takes a moment to study Sherlock. Being sat by a fireside really does wonderful things for Sherlock’s face. His angular features always look their best in dim light, half cast into shadow, half illuminated by the flickering, dancing flames. His eyes gleam, bright and filled with mirth as they share a joke.

People think Sherlock much colder than he truly is. He smiles and laughs far more than anyone would think he does, but they aren’t privy to that side of him the way John is.

“What is it?” Sherlock asks when John stares that little bit too long, reaching down and setting his glass at his feet now he’s finished with it.

“Nothing, I…” John flounders. “I was just wondering who taught you to dance.”

“Oh.” Sherlock sounds almost disappointed and seems to lean back in his chair slightly. Perhaps it’s John’s imagination. “I had a private tutor in Mycroft and, as you rightly said earlier, I’m a public school boy. Dancing was encouraged.”

John can’t quite stifle his laugh at the idea of Mycroft teaching a younger Sherlock to dance. Sherlock’s eyes narrow the way they usually do when he feels like he’s being mocked and he turns his face to one side, acting like it doesn’t bother him.

“Sorry,” John says between giggles (it’s definitely the wine). “Sorry, just… you and Mycroft?”

Sherlock turns his head back to look at John, lips twitching as he holds back a smile better than John did his laugh. “He was an extremely patient teacher.”

They both laugh helplessly then, Sherlock at his memories and John at his mental images. Sherlock and Mycroft dancing together, bickering all the while… Yes, he’s saving that one for a rainy day.

“I could teach you,” Sherlock says off-handedly when they calm down again. “If you wanted, that is. Not Ceroc, I can’t stand that style of dance. Something proper.”

John feels his heart rate pick up. Dancing with Sherlock for an act outside the flat is one thing, private lessons inside the flat is quite another. It’s not something men do with their male friends. But then, the former isn’t usual practice either. Sherlock really is quite unlike any friend he’s ever had. And far _better_ than any friend he’s ever had.

“Like what?” he finds himself asking, despite his reservations. Jesus, just how strong is that wine of Sherlock’s anyway?

“For a previous case when I was following a suspect, some time before we met, I learnt to dance the tango. That was interesting. Not so insipid like most dances.”

John’s knowledge of dance comes pretty much solely from catching bits of Strictly Come Dancing on the odd Saturday night when he and Sherlock aren’t haring after suspects and serial killers. Not having much interest in that particular area, he’s not an avid watcher, but he does know that the tango is the dance that’s meant to be very passionate and dramatic.

Fitting, then, that Sherlock would show a preference for it.

If memory serves, it’s also the dance that involves very close contact with one’s partner. And one that’s often used as a euphemism for sex. _The horizontal tango._ John’s mouth goes dry at the thought and he ducks his head down, hastily drinking the last of his wine.

“John?”

Sherlock is standing in front of him now, one hand reaching down to take his wine glass. He sets it aside carelessly and then extends both hands to John to pull him out of his seat.

“Come on,” Sherlock says. “You never know when you might need it for a case.”

“Pretty sure the answer’s never,” John mumbles back, embarrassed. He’s not sure he wants to do this.

“Nonsense.”

Sherlock offers no anecdote to support his argument, he just guides them both into the centre of the room where there is most space, feet shoving boxes and papers that are in the way to one side.

When Sherlock is satisfied with the space around them, he steps in close to John, and takes both of his hands again.

“In tango,” he says, voice pitched low and somehow suitable for the darkened, quiet flat, “the hold is called an embrace.”

John wasn’t sure this could get worse, but hearing Sherlock say that has proved him wrong. He says nothing. He’s going to listen to Sherlock and get this over with so that he can go to bed and not think about this. He’s not going to think about this.

“You’ll be following my lead on this occasion, John.”

Well, that’s not so different from most days, John thinks.

“I’ll refer to our parts as leader and follower rather than man and woman; I expect you’ll prefer that.”

It makes no difference to John. He’s pretending this isn’t happening, thank you very much.

“The leader is supposed to make the follower feel safe. He should give off an air of trust and reassurance. Do you trust me, John?”

John swallows. Of all the loaded questions. “With my life,” he answers quietly, because it’s the truth.

Sherlock’s genuine smile makes itself known in the corners of his lips as they curve upwards. “This is the close embrace of the Argentine tango,” he says.

All of a sudden, Sherlock’s right hand takes hold of his left, Sherlock’s left hand moves across his back to hold him and he pulls John so close that their chests are flush. Their hips align but stay separated by mere inches, and John’s right hand automatically goes to Sherlock’s back to steady himself.

Sherlock holds him tightly, his body at once taut and flexible against John’s, ready to move.

It’s not going to happen tonight – John’s not that quick of a learner – but he pictures them dancing together. They would be sharp and precise, John following but anticipating as Sherlock gave him well-recognised cues. Their partnership wouldn’t allow for anything less than perfect symbiosis.

Most days, John feels like an extension of Sherlock. Sherlock certainly treats him like an extra pair of hands, but he knows now that it’s not just laziness on Sherlock’s part. There’s a level of absent-minded fondness to his trivial requests – his phone in the pocket of a jacket he’s wearing, a pen that’s right by his hand as he works at the microscope. Sherlock doesn’t see it like other people do. John reaching into his jacket for his phone isn’t a gross breach of personal space, it’s just that extra pair of hands performing a task his own hands are too busy for. But he wouldn’t ask it of Molly, or Lestrade, or even Mrs Hudson. He only ever asks these things of John, and it’s very telling of the way Sherlock must view him.

Even Sherlock doesn’t know where he ends and John begins.

They stand together for a long moment, adjusting to their new proximity, far closer than good friends should ever get. John can feel the heat of Sherlock’s body through both their layers of clothing. He wonders if Sherlock can feel his racing heart as it tries to escape the confines of his ribs. Even as he thinks it, he realises that _he_ can feel Sherlock’s quickened breathing against his chest and on his face.

Their heads are close enough that only a tiny movement would mean kissing Sherlock.

For one insane moment, John thinks Sherlock _is_ going to kiss him, but he bypasses John’s mouth to fit his own near to John’s ear, telling him softly: “The follower should submit to the leader. This is an embrace, so embrace me. Give yourself to me, no questions asked, no hesitations. Relax, John. You said you trusted me.”

John does, he very much does and he wants to say it, to reiterate it to Sherlock as many times as he needs to for Sherlock to believe him. He moves his head, opens his mouth to tell him and his cheek brushes Sherlock’s jaw, the fleeting touch like a spark on his skin, travelling through his body.

Sherlock’s arms tighten around him, drawing him even nearer.

John pulls back against his grip, pulls his head back enough to be able to look at Sherlock without their faces touching and meets Sherlock’s intense gaze. With only the fire providing any light in the flat, Sherlock’s wide pupils could be attributed to the darkness of the room. His own are probably the same.

What he can’t explain is the way he’s getting turned on from this clasp of theirs. He could say it’s the closeness, but it’s not. He’s not a young man anymore, he doesn’t get hard at the drop of a hat.

If Sherlock presses any closer, he’s going to know about it.

What will he do then?

Sherlock chooses that moment to gently drop his forehead onto John’s and shuts his eyes with a sigh. His right hand abruptly lets go of John’s and slides down to encircle his wrist, fingers pressing down. Taking his pulse.

He can’t explain that one away either, can he?

“Sherlock…”

He wants to beg to be released, to flee to the safety and simplicity of his room. He just can’t get the words out.

Sherlock’s eyes open at the use of his name, still dark, the quicksilver of his irises nearly invisible. For a moment, those eyes search his and then Sherlock nods, as if he’s found something there that he wanted to see.

Both of his palms come up to John’s neck, thumbs lightly caressing his jaw on either side.

_He really is going to kiss me,_ John thinks, heart rate climbing further still. Sherlock must be able to feel that.

Sherlock can’t kiss him. They’re not like this, they don’t do this.

It’s just Sherlock pushing boundaries again. Acting, manipulating. Sherlock doesn’t want this, he _said_ so. Transport, not his area, married to his work.

It’s just another trick of his, another role.

“Is this still part of the dance?” John asks.

Sherlock’s hands drop away. Suddenly there’s a foot of space between them and John feels cold from head to toe without Sherlock’s warm body pressed along the length of his.

How could he have been so stupid? He’s been taken in again. Why on earth should Sherlock want to teach him to dance except to tease a long-held, closely-guarded secret from his lips? And not through speaking either, it seems.

“I think that’s enough of a lesson for today,” Sherlock says flatly, head down and avoiding John’s eyes.

“Yes, I suppose it is,” John replies through clenched teeth. His fists are clenched too, but he’s not going to hit Sherlock. He just needs to get away from him for a long time.

Without another word, he darts past Sherlock, grabs his coat and storms out of the flat.

 

* * *

 

He gets to Baker Street tube station.

He realises he has no money, no Oyster card, no phone.

He realises he has nowhere to go.

He realises that he’s jumped to a pretty big conclusion without any evidence.

_Sherlock would be appalled._

When Sherlock is his first clear thought since his (not so) tactical retreat, he realises he’s probably more than a little bit in love.

He lets out a hysterical laugh and the people using the ticket barriers give him a wide berth.


	2. I'm better under the covers

The thing is, just about everyone thought to pull John to one side and warn him about the sociopath he was moving in with. Everyone advised against it. Everyone advised John to be careful, to protect himself.

Everyone warned John Watson that his life wouldn’t be the same if he moved in with Sherlock Holmes.

The thing is, no one thought to warn Sherlock.

 

* * *

 

It started out well enough. In the laboratory at Bart’s, John was an interesting contradiction, a useful aberration. Soldier and doctor, killer and healer. A man like that was invaluable to a trouble magnet – magnet is too passive, a trouble _seeker_ , perhaps – like Sherlock Holmes. His new flatmate could be both bodyguard and physician and, if he was lucky, his personal solution to the Anderson problem.

Of course, this all looked very neat on paper. Neat and clinical and unbelievably fortuitous. John was a box of tricks, a collection of talents and skills.

In practice, he turned out to be much more.

 

* * *

 

He should have known to expect it, really. With the gun came the loyalty. Fealty, almost. With the stethoscope came the care. (Love, almost.)

He hadn’t expected the laughter after a chase. The simple joy in a presence at his side, at his back. The pride when he took John to his first crime scene, _he’s with me_.

He hadn’t even expected the gunshot through a window, really. He’d made plans for John’s dual nature, but he hadn’t expected those talents of his to be extended to him so quickly, so freely. 

In fact, he hadn’t expected it to the point where he almost gave John away to Lestrade, so certain that it couldn’t have been John who made the shot until he kept speaking about the man who might have done it ( _a crackshot, a fighter, acclimatised to violence, strong moral principle, history of military service_ ), until he looked over and met John’s eyes and found something he was unaware he’d ever been looking for.

John killed a man for him after a single day of acquaintance. It spoke volumes of the trust John had already placed in him. For a man with known trust issues, that was quite something, Sherlock supposed. A display like that earned more than a little of his regard.

He couldn’t help but respond to it – protective, _possessive_ as he lied to Lestrade to make sure he could keep John. He was wrong, he was in shock, he didn’t know what he was saying.

From then on, Sherlock knew he wasn’t dealing with a potential sidekick, whatever he might say. John wasn’t just his guard dog or his mother hen. John wasn’t just a doctor or protector, he was also a man, the type of man that couldn’t just be Sherlock’s partner in detection. John was to be his friend as well.

A friend. How novel.

Sherlock still thinks he deserved some form of warning about that.

 

* * *

 

He definitely deserved the warning that, somewhere along the line, things between them would shift and blur until ‘friend’ was perhaps the most woefully inadequate description in the English language for their relationship.

It might also have helped if someone had told him that a better word wasn’t to be found in any dictionary.

 

* * *

 

He knows he’s got it bad because the thoughts are starting to take up space.

Physically as well as mentally, some days. Unfortunately, the nicotine patches don’t help with the problem. They don’t help to order the flurry of thoughts and feelings that surge and ebb, but they’re something. The patches in general aren’t a great deal of help with his thought processes, more a tribute to a former addiction.

They’re a better choice than _another_ old habit of his, the kind that sits in a box beneath the floorboards, kept for emergencies. His very own tell-tale heart, out of sight, but ever-present as it beats away at the back of his mind, beneath his feet.

John wouldn’t approve of him turning to that though, so he’s left with this.

He discards the patches one by one, peels them from his skin and flicks them onto the floor. John will huff at him later for that. Initially for the mess, which he will dispose of, and then for Sherlock’s health.

He recalls what he labelled the patches with in his mind as he pulls them off. Three of them, on this occasion. John is worthy of far more than even three patches as problems go, but Sherlock can recognise his own limitations, after a fashion. There’s the size of his arm to begin with.

The first was labelled ‘ _timing’._

The second is ‘ _reciprocation’._

The third: ‘ _sexuality’._ He removes that one with a grimace.

There are more issues than these when it comes to John, naturally, but Sherlock has to spread these things out.

His ponderings in the direction of each patch on this afternoon have been entirely circular. ‘ _Timing’,_ well, John has always pointed out Sherlock’s problem with that. The trouble is, there will never be a _good_ time for this sort of thing. Not with the lives they lead.

He imagines it, a body at their feet as he asks if John can’t stop thinking about him sometimes either. If it keeps him awake as well as an unsolved case does Sherlock, if it stops him focusing on the things he is meant to be focusing on. _Timing, Sherlock._ In the flat then, between cases, between the rush and tear and push and pull. Could he ask then? No, John would announce he was off on another of his tiresome, futile dates before he got the chance. _Not now, Sherlock._

When, _when_ can he bring this up? Over the past week he’s had the words permanently in his throat, lodged there and choking him, unable to spit them out or swallow them down. John is annoyed with his silences and dark moods. Sherlock can’t really blame him.

_S_ herlock doesn’t want to put the subject to him at all, not really. He wants to keep it secret, let it fester and chafe, but ultimately decay until things are as they used to be again.

He knows there isn’t much hope for that.

_‘Timing’_ will be put back on his arm on another day. Perhaps then he might get somewhere with it. _Not now, Sherlock._

_‘Reciprocation’,_ that must be the most loaded one of them all. He can barely parse his own troublesome feelings, let alone John’s. Sherlock’s endless mysteries, the only ones he can never unravel, they all seem to revolve around John Watson. He can read John’s actions as easily as he can breathe, he can tell where the man is going, where he’s been, but he cannot get a handle on John’s feelings.

Feelings. They’re soft, squishy things, as annoying and uncooperative as his own demanding inner organs, his transport. He’d cut them out if he could, the feelings, if he thought it might help. He’d put them under the microscope to examine their contents, run them through a centrifuge to separate out the layers. He’d stain them and label them, keep them in separate vials so he would always be able to identify each one.

Ah, that’s loneliness, he could say. A trifling matter, John’s voice should halt the process.

Oh, happiness? Don’t touch it, don’t change a thing. The composition is perfect as it is.

Hmm, that one’s lust. Easily slaked, an orgasm should do it.

That brings him to ‘ _sexuality’._ His own is a veritable quagmire. Should he wade into its murky, unexplored depths, he finds a certain level of apathy in general, and a healthy dose of suppressed curiosity that relates only to John. It’s a failing of his, but until now he’s been well-versed enough in the human body and its desires to get by. Practical knowledge has never been necessary to understand the motive behind a crime of passion and beyond that he’s had no use for any sexual or romantic entanglements.

Until now. Until his mind, unbidden, began to wander to John’s successful dates, the ones Sherlock couldn’t manage to thwart or didn’t care to. The ones that John stayed out all night for and came back after the next day satisfied, relaxed, and smelling at once distinctly like himself and distinctly not like himself at all. Perfume is not a good smell on John. Sweat after chasing all over London is far better.

He wonders what happens, sometimes. He wonders what tips the balance of a date, what tips them over from a friendly dinner and a promise of more into a frenzy of skin and moans and pleasure.

He wonders what it would take for them.

Does John make the first move? Does she? Tradition would dictate that the man generally makes the first move, but these are modern times. Perhaps it’s a mutual agreement after shy glances and increasingly meaningful touches throughout the evening.

Yes, that’s probably John’s style. Subtle, easy-going flirtation without overt intention or expectation.

Perhaps he’s been too subtle about his own intentions? No matter. To call attention to them loudly could be disastrous.

Sometimes he thinks about what must happen next, after that mutual agreement. The tense cab ride, the first kiss, the removal of clothes. Most of the time, he cuts off the train of thought with something else. Anything else. Anything but that soft-focus imagining of John sharing his body with some nameless, faceless woman.

He’s not sure why it bothers him so much, why he should suddenly want this with John. They were fine as flatmates and inordinately close friends.

Sherlock has to question whether it’s just that curiosity of his growing. He’s experienced sexual gratification by his own hand, why should he speculate what it might be like by another’s? Has he just reached a point in his life where speculation is not enough?

It’s probably just that jealous, selfish part of him coming to the fore – he wants to be the one to put that satisfied look on John’s face. No external help required.

If he thinks about it more deeply, if he _allows_ himself to be honest, he knows it’s because his connection with John is unlike any he’s had with anyone before. If he were to ever explore this side of himself, there’s no one else he could imagine doing so with. He wants the permission to touch John wherever and whenever he feels like it. With John’s enthusiastic consent, that is. Sherlock isn’t _incredibly_ tactile by nature, but he dislikes the boundary of ‘just friends’ between them (in John’s mind if not his), and he hates the rules about what he can and cannot do.

It’s rather difficult to get anywhere though when one can’t even be truthful in the privacy of one’s own mind.

 

* * *

 

When he takes the case, he begins planning it. It’s the perfect opportunity to be close to John and get some answers to his intractable problems. Being close to someone like that, dancing with them and communicating with them with your body alone… well, it’s almost like sex, right? Ceroc dancing may not be his usual style, in as much as he has one, but it will do. If anything, it will be an excuse to teach John to dance _properly_.

And he’s already got six, maybe seven ideas about that.

 

* * *

 

He just didn’t expect they would backfire so spectacularly.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock conducts experiments. It’s what he does.

He takes two reactants, adds a catalyst, and records his results.

This time was no different. He took himself and John, added a dance lesson and a close embrace, and right when he was about to get a positive result, the whole thing blew up in his face.

He was so sure of himself, so sure of John and now he isn’t sure of anything at all. It’s a feeling he’s not used to, and he doesn’t ever want to be used to it because it’s absolutely loathsome. It’s worse than the height of boredom between cases.

He’s never wanted to pry a few floorboards loose more, but if John comes back… John can’t find him that way.

A futile search for cigarettes later and he settles for the harmless patches, mind too jumbled to even give them orderly names as he adheres the standard three to his skin with trembling fingers.

Why did John pull away from him? Why did he _run_ away from him?

Has he finally pushed too far?

Wait, did he think _if_ John comes back? No, it’s _when_ John comes back. John has to come back or Sherlock will pull up the floorboards with his bare hands to get to that box, so help him. His fingernails will crack and his fingers will bleed and it will _hurt_ , and John doesn’t want him to hurt, so he’ll come back.

Any minute now.

Any second.

 

* * *

 

_Come home,_ he texts.

John’s phone chimes in the kitchen.

Sherlock goes out to it, picking it up to see his own name flash across the screen as the alert sounds again.

Pocketing the phone for no reason that he can identify, he switches on the kettle, scratches idly at one of his patches and goes back to lie on the sofa and wait.

He thinks in circles again.

 

* * *

 

“Is that three patches?”

Sherlock’s eyes snap open at the sound of John’s voice. He heard the door open and the creak-thump of John coming up the stairs, the rustle as John took off his coat. He thought it best to keep his eyes closed, pretend to be deep in thought or asleep in case John wanted to go to his room and not face him.

He’s not sure how much time has passed since John left, but John has been gone long enough to bring a swirl of cold, wintery air in with him. The fire is still blazing; John should warm up soon enough. A cup of tea should set him right, or perhaps another glass of wine, or some of the brandy they have left over from Christmas…

“It’s a three patch problem,” he says when he remembers what John asked.

“The case?”

Sherlock looks up at John’s face, searching for the rage he left in. It’s dissipated. John just looks tired now, pale lips and drawn features. His shoulders are hunched as he rubs his hands together.

“I’ll make tea,” Sherlock says, sitting up. “Or would you like something stronger?”

“Another glass of wine would be good.” Sherlock walks into the kitchen, taking John’s phone from his pocket and softly setting it back where he found it while John continues to talk from the living area. “I think we should have a talk, Sherlock.”

He asked for wine. It’s a difficult conversation then, he doesn’t want to do it completely sober. _I want to move out because you almost kissed me earlier_ counts as a difficult conversation, doesn’t it?

Sherlock pours the wine, focused on his task and not on what John might say to him, hands steady.

“Did you hear me?” John calls out to him.

“I did,” Sherlock walks back into the sitting room, delivering the glass into John’s waiting hand. Their fingers brush. Sherlock closes his eyes and pulls away, taking the chair opposite John’s, a perfect mirror to their positions before Sherlock went and managed to break this fragile thing they have. He never realised how precariously balanced they were, how close to the precipice.

Or, rather, he did, but he thought they’d be landing somewhere else entirely. As it is, they’ve fallen into a pit of jagged rocks, a thick fog of uncertainty surrounding them, and Sherlock has no idea how to navigate now.

John takes a large sip of the wine. “What happened- what _nearly_ happened when we were-”

Sherlock interrupts, he just has to. He can’t bear to listen to John stuttering and stammering around the issue. “It was my mistake,” he says, the words foreign and dull on his tongue. “You don’t want to… to dance with me. I understand. Forget it ever occurred.”

Well. It seems he’s no better than John at this. Really? He’s going to go with a dance metaphor for this conversation? It’s easier than speaking plainly, far easier, but it’s completely childish. Sherlock slumps in his chair and folds his arms, wishing he could take the words back.

John is obviously surprised. He looks away from Sherlock, swirls the crimson wine around his glass, takes another drink. “I thought you didn’t like to dance.”

“I don’t, generally. But I can be tempted.”

_Always,_ he had said to John. If it’s John asking, the answer is _always_.

John clears his throat. “You know, I don’t dance with men. Generally.”

“Generally.” Sherlock cringes internally. He usually can’t abide repetition. Look at him now, metaphors and repetition in one night.

“I danced with quite a few men tonight, though,” John says with a thoughtful expression.

“I do hope we’ve come to the natural end of this euphemism.”

He knows what John means, but the thought has been planted in his mind: John with other men. It rankles as much if not _more_ than the thought of John with women.

John laughs brightly. “Yes, I am referring solely to dancing now, Sherlock. What I’m saying though is… if you want a- a dance partner, and I mean _really_ want one, then I’m… I guess I’m amenable.”

Sherlock frowns. “If you’re amenable, why did you leave earlier? That was what we were heading towards, wasn’t it?”

“I thought you were acting,” John says, tilting his glass this way and that, watching the wine move against the sides. “I thought it was part of our cover, an experiment to see how far you could take this.”

“It _was_ an experiment.”

John’s face falls.

“Not for the purpose you think,” Sherlock says at once. “You don’t understand, I had to be _sure_. Reciprocation, sexuality.” He indicates one of the patches and then another.

John’s gaze follows the gesture. “I’m the three patch problem?”

“Of course. You’re far more than a three patch problem, John, but the boxes only contain so many. I’ve been spreading it out.”

“You mean… you’ve done this before? Put patches on and tried to- to solve me?”

“And I never can,” Sherlock says quietly. “I just end up back where I started.”

“Why couldn’t you just ask me?”

Sherlock points at the third patch. “Timing,” he says. “There’s never a good time. I can’t stand being unsure, John, it paralyses me.”

“Tonight seems like a good time. Tonight is the perfect time, actually.” John smiles at him, soft eyes, soft mouth. “Ask me to dance, Sherlock.”

Sherlock feels a light tremor in his chest. They’re back to the metaphor, aren’t they? “Would you… would you like to dance with me, John?”

“We could try that close embrace again.” John sets his wine glass on the table beside him. “I rather liked that one. I think you’ll find that I can teach you a thing or two in this particular dance.”

“I’m sure,” Sherlock says, eyes tracking John’s every movement as he stands and moves forward to offer his hands to Sherlock this time. “I should probably warn you that I’m a beginner. A complete beginner, in fact. I’ll try not to step on your toes, but it’s no guarantee.”

John’s smile doesn’t waver. “That’s fine. I know you’re a quick learner. And toe-stepping-on is expected when you find a new partner.”

Their palms and fingers fit together well. John pulls him to his feet, keeps only a small distance between them as he holds Sherlock’s hand to guide him, puts his other hand in the middle of Sherlock’s back.

“Do you mind if I lead this time?” John asks, raising his head from where he’s been concentrating on the placement of his hands to meet Sherlock’s eyes.

Without answering verbally, Sherlock relaxes into John’s embrace but keeps his core strong. The follower should submit to the leader. He places his hand on John’s shoulderblade and tugs him nearer until they’re as close as they were before, chests touching. He tilts his head down to rest his nose and forehead against the side of John’s face.

John trembles at the intimate touch, opening his mouth to breathe hotly in Sherlock’s ear. He’s becoming aroused already, just from this. From the anticipation. Sherlock closes his eyes, letting his own harsh breaths out through his mouth, letting John know he’s not the only one.

Ready to follow, Sherlock waits for John to take the lead.

He isn’t kept waiting for long, because John soon walks them both across the room, pushing until Sherlock’s back meets the wall. He lets Sherlock’s hand go to take hold of his chin gently between thumb and forefinger. When he catches and holds Sherlock’s gaze, there’s a wary question in his eyes. Ignoring the curious fluttering in his stomach, Sherlock nods into John’s hand, and John finally angles Sherlock’s head further down until their lips meet in a kiss.

John teases him at first, keeping the kiss light and shallow. His mouth remains closed as he brushes it over Sherlock’s and Sherlock finds himself leaning forwards, pushing back and asking for more.

John’s lips part then and the kiss changes entirely as his tongue sweeps along the shape of Sherlock’s lower lip, seeking permission once again. Sherlock opens his mouth in answer and is overwhelmed with the rush of _John_ that fills his senses as John’s tongue pushes, curls, strokes. Emboldened, Sherlock lets his own tongue come forward to dip into John’s mouth and sets about exploring.

His focus narrows to that contact, the soft, slick noises of their lips moving together, the sweetness of the wine he can taste in John’s mouth. It’s all more intoxicating than the alcohol itself. Sherlock’s head is spinning, he feels like he’s floating up above and this is happening to someone else. He’s seized with the desire to know everything about this side of John, what he wants, what he likes. He wants to know what beautiful sounds he can coax from him. His hands clutch desperately at John’s forearms to ground himself before he thinks _but I can touch now_ and brings them up to cradle John’s face, changing the angle of John’s head to deepen their kiss.

The hand holding his chin lets go and moves to scrabble fingers at Sherlock’s patches, trying to remove them.

“Off,” John says. “These need to come off.”

Sherlock can’t help but feel that the patches aren’t the main thing that needs to come off when they’re both still fully dressed.

“Whatever problem you’ve been trying to solve,” John keeps talking, sliding a fingernail beneath one of the patches. He peels it off and discards it, flicking it carelessly behind them and moving onto the next. “I think this is your answer.”

John rocks his hips forward, lets Sherlock feel how hard he is. They both groan at the sensation and Sherlock presses back, insistent and unabashed. John laughs and raises Sherlock’s now-bare arm to his lips, pressing open-mouthed kisses to the circles of skin where the patches had been before pinning Sherlock’s arm to the wall above his head. As he does it, his thigh insinuates itself between Sherlock’s and pushes upwards. Sherlock gasps, holding on to John like a lifeline because that felt _ridiculously_ good. John’s thigh presses up again, encouraging him to use it for the friction he needs against his cock.

“Bed,” John pants. “More comfortable there.”

Full sentences have apparently gone out the window. Sherlock doesn’t want to see if his own language skills are similarly diminished in this state and settles for nodding. John releases him from their embrace and takes hold of both his wrists, tugging Sherlock forwards as he walks backwards in the direction of Sherlock’s bedroom.

“Is your bed-”

“Clean, devoid of any experiments.”

John actually giggles at that, and Sherlock laughs with him. It’s cut off when John surges towards him to press another hard kiss to Sherlock’s mouth as if he can’t get enough, as if he can’t be without that connection for too long now he’s had it. John’s teeth graze his lower lip and Sherlock slides a hand around the back of John’s head to hold him there, prolonging the kiss.

When he dared imagine what he and John would be like as lovers, he hoped it would be like this: intense but playful, serious but still fun. He should have known John wouldn’t disappoint.

After a few stops and starts, they end up in Sherlock’s bedroom. John spins them around when they get through the door so he’s no longer pulling at Sherlock and instead begins pushing him towards the bed in the centre of the room. As they go, John’s hands slide down from his neck to his chest and begin unbuttoning his shirt. In return, Sherlock’s nimble fingers make quick work of John’s buttons and they both shrug their respective shirts off impatiently, eyes on each other the whole time.

The first touch of John’s fevered palm to his waist is _incredible_. It’s a small, insignificant thing that the sexually adept probably wouldn’t even blink at, but Sherlock is inundated with new sensations and nothing is insignificant to him. No one has ever touched his bare skin with this kind of intent. And John is intent on him, bottom lip caught between his teeth, face flushed and eyes dark.

“I want to- I want-”

Sherlock has no idea what it is that John wants, because he never finishes the sentence, only moves his hands to undo Sherlock’s belt and trousers, so Sherlock has _some_ idea. John hooks his fingers in the waistband of Sherlock’s underwear on either side and, for an absurd moment, Sherlock feels panic bolt through him.

John registers the change immediately and takes his hands away, looking up to search Sherlock’s face for clues.

“It’s nothing,” Sherlock says, attempting to pull John’s hands back to his hips. “Carry on.”

John resists and his fingers twine with Sherlock’s instead. “Beginners can be nervous,” he says. “That’s up there with toe-stepping-on; it’s expected. And practice makes perfect.”

Sherlock smiles at the promise and the reminder of their earlier euphemism. “Remember how I said the follower should trust the leader and how he should give himself over to his partner? Well, that’s what I’m doing. I want this, John.”

“And you’ll tell me if I make a wrong move?”

“Honestly, it’s like you don’t even know me,” Sherlock teases, edging towards the bed still and bringing John with him. “Of course I will. Without hesitation or concern for your feelings, as you know.”

Evidently satisfied with that, John leans forwards and kisses him again. Their mouths move together, slow and unhurried, and Sherlock feels John’s hands carefully pulling his underwear and trousers down over his thighs. Sherlock breaks the kiss to gasp when John’s hand closes around him and strokes.

John smirks. “There’ll be time for practice and finesse later,” he says, pushing until Sherlock’s legs finally meet the mattress behind him. “For now, let’s just take the edge off, yeah?”

He keeps pushing and Sherlock takes the hint and sits. John neatly divests him of his pants, trousers and socks before removing his own, sighing with relief as he does.

Sherlock watches him, enthralled with each new exposed inch of skin. Aesthetically, John’s body isn’t what holds Sherlock captivated. John has kept in relatively good shape since Afghanistan, his muscles are defined, but he’s softer around the middle than he was when they first met. He’s an expanse of tanned skin with a sparse dusting of light blond hair down his chest and legs. He has scars, most notably the one on his left shoulder. His erect penis looks generously sized, but not greatly above average. John is attractive, pleasingly symmetrical for the most part, but what’s most interesting about him aren’t his physical features, but the story they collectively tell.

The second John is done undressing himself, Sherlock reaches for him. He feels coarse hair and smooth skin under his palm when he lays it on the nape of John’s neck to pull him close before sweeping his hand down across John’s bare shoulder. His fingertips catch and stutter over the ridges of skin there. Scar tissue.

John stiffens slightly and Sherlock stills his hand. He goes to pull away, thinking he’s overstepped, and John’s hand comes up to rest over his. John’s hand doesn’t pull his away but holds him lightly in place, encouraging him to touch.

“It’s okay,” John says, and Sherlock splays his fingers over the scar, gauging its size.

He’s never had access to this much data on John before.

He doesn’t get long to collect data though, because John shakes his head fondly at him and then drops to his knees to push Sherlock’s thighs apart. He settles between them, makes himself comfortable, and then leans forward to take Sherlock into his mouth.

If Sherlock thought a touch to his waist was incredible, then this is _indescribable._ John’s mouth is hot and tight around him, his fist covering what his mouth can’t and pulling in time with his sucks. Sherlock’s hips jerk involuntarily and John’s free hand plants itself on his abdomen, pushing him back down into the mattress.

Sherlock breathes hard through his nose, torn between letting his head tip back the way it wants to and watching John the way _he_ wants to. He’s not going to last long, he can say that for certain. The sight of John’s head between his legs is unbearably erotic, saying nothing for the feeling of John’s tongue lapping delicately at the head of his cock, the knowledge that John wants to do this to him.

He’s always thought that this act must be somehow degrading for the person performing it, that it puts them into a position of vulnerability. Right now though, he can see how wrong he was. John _very much_ wants to do this to him, going by the moans he can feel vibrating against his sensitised skin, and John is the one with almost all the power in this particular exchange as he sets the pace, changes the pressure. Sherlock has never felt more lost, more out of control of his body and its movements and desires. His earlier panic doesn’t make a reappearance though, now he’s just overwhelmed with feelings of trust and affection for John. Oxytocin at work?

His thighs quiver as he gets close and, unsure what else to do, his hand flutters over John’s shoulder, trying to get his attention. John’s hand finds it’s way to his and squeezes reassuringly.

Sherlock barely gets a second to recognise the gesture as the permission it is before he’s coming with a surprised gasp, eyes falling shut.

In that moment, Sherlock loses himself entirely. He can think of nothing beyond the waves of bliss he’s experiencing, the feeling of John’s mouth as John swallows until he’s finished and he slumps back onto the bed, letting out a long, shaky exhale.

It’s never been like that before.

In his post-orgasmic daze, he registers a warm body settling alongside his, an affectionate chuckle and the rhythmic movements of someone masturbating. When he regains his senses, he reaches across a heavy, rubbery arm in John’s general direction to lend a hand.

“Don’t worry too much,” John says, the words strained and breathless. “Nearly there just from watching you, _hearing_ you. Christ, Sherlock, I- oh!”

John comes before Sherlock even gets his hand on him, and he leans over Sherlock to kiss him fiercely, clumsily as his orgasm takes hold and he spills across both their stomachs.

Sherlock keeps kissing John after, pleased with the way John’s mouth turns soft and yielding under his and the feeling of their heartbeats thudding together, Sherlock’s slowing and John’s still racing.

When he pulls back, John’s eyes are closed. He’ll fall asleep any minute at this rate. Sherlock takes a prideful moment to admire John’s flushed cheeks and swollen lips, and John reaches up a hand to caress the side of Sherlock’s face with the backs of his knuckles.

“Amazing,” John breathes, hushed in the silence of the room. It feels almost reverent.

“Yes,” Sherlock agrees. “You are.”

He ducks his head down to lay a trail of kisses across John’s throat, partly out of gratitude, partly out of the sheer thrill of being able to.

Tomorrow, he thinks. Tomorrow they’ll teach each other new dances.

He can’t wait.


End file.
